Chapter Nineteen
Erica
The bathroom light is too bright, like it’s trying to expose me or interrogate me.
I stand in front of the mirror anyway, both hands braced on the edge of the sink, staring at my own face as if it belongs to someone else. Right now, it feels like it does.
My eyes are swollen. My lashes are clumped. My cheeks look scrubbed raw, like I tried to wipe the whole day off my skin and only managed to make it worse.
Even the shower couldn’t wash it away.
The water helped for about five minutes—hot enough to sting, steam thick enough to cradle me—but the crying jag is still in my bones.
My chest still feels tender, like I pulled something.
My throat still burns in that exhausted, after-sobbing way, and every time I swallow it’s a reminder of how hard I broke.
On the floor.
In my living room.
With my knees pulled up like I was a child.
And Nico walked in and saw me like that.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, like maybe I can rewind it. Like maybe if I press hard enough, I can go back to the moment before I called him. It’s a wonder he understood anything with the way I was babbling brokenly.
My stomach rolls.
I open my eyes again and look at the mirror. The steam has started to fade from the glass, leaving a clean, clear reflection. Me, bare-faced, hair damp and shoved back, skin blotchy.
I can’t believe I did that.
I can’t believe it was him.
I can’t believe he came.
I thought— God, I don’t even know what I thought. That he would ignore it. That he’d be too busy. That he’d send someone. That he’d ask questions I couldn’t answer. That he’d make it worse, somehow.
Instead, he was just… there.
He didn’t talk me through it. He didn’t try to fix it with words. He didn’t ask me to explain why I was falling apart in the middle of the empty house.
He just held me.
A quiet, solid presence. His arm around my back. His hand at the back of my head. His chest under my cheek. The solid feel of him, like an anchor when my brain kept trying to float away into panic.
Even after my sobs slowed down enough to breathe again, he just held me. As the house grew darker around us and the evening light faded, as the neighborhood came alive with after-work and after-school life. He held me.
At some point, he murmured close to my hair, low and calm. Go upstairs. Shower. Wear something warm. Then come back down. When you’re ready.
But I wasn’t. And still, he never rushed me. Just waited until I heaved a shaky sigh and pulled myself out of his arms.
I shift my gaze down to what I’m wearing now.
Sweatpants. Soft, old, broken-in.
And the Rutgers sweater.
The one I bought my dad the day I told him I got in. He’d held it up like it was a trophy, like it meant I’d already made it in the big leagues. He wore it constantly after that, even when it was too warm, even when it was faded, even when the cuffs got frayed from him tugging them over his hands.
It was his favorite.
I always meant to stop in the store on campus and buy him another one.
Seeing it on me now makes my throat tighten all over again, sharp and immediate, and I lean closer to the sink as if the counter can hold me up.
When my eyes start burning again, I close my eyes and take deep breaths.
He’s alive, Erica. The surgery went well. He’s going to recover.
What is wrong with you?
I know what’s wrong with me.
I know it’s not just Dad. The kidney mass, surgery, recovery.
It’s something I haven’t been able to deal with. Something that’s been pressing on my chest for over a week, making it hard to breathe.
Since the night in a hotel room with the man downstairs.
Since the night everything changed.
And it’s why I called Nico. It’s why he came so quickly. Why he’s been so patient with me.
No, he won’t say “I told you so.” It’s not the kind of man he is.
But he knew all along. He knew me better than I knew myself.
And it scares the hell out of me.
I open my eyes and look at myself in the mirror.
I don’t look any different.
How can I be so different?
I should feel self-conscious walking downstairs to him.
I should feel embarrassed that I clutched his expensive shirt in my fists and cried all over it.
I should feel embarrassed that I needed him. Still need him.
But I can’t bring myself to care.
Not about the sweater. Not about the sweatpants. Not about the fact that Nico Conti is in my house.
I don’t even know what happens next.
I don’t know what he expects from me now.
I stare at my reflection again, at my red eyes and my damp hair and the Rutgers logo stretched across my chest, and I take one breath. Then another.
My hands shake when I reach for the towel hanging on the rack, and I use it anyway, pressing it to my face like it can absorb more than water.
I swallow hard, glance at the door, and try to make my legs move.
I come down the stairs slowly, one hand on the rail, even though I don’t need it.
My hair is still damp at the ends. The sweatshirt hangs heavy on me, warm and familiar, like I’m borrowing comfort from a version of my life that made sense.
The curtains are pulled across the windows, and the living room lamp is on.
So is the kitchen light.
And there are bags on my counter.
White paper bags with black lettering. Regalia.
I’ve heard of it but never been there.
The smell hits me a second later—garlic, tomato, basil, something fried and warm. Comfort food smell. The kind of thing that would normally make me ravenous.
Nico is in my kitchen like he belongs there, jacket off, sleeves pushed up a little. He looks up when he hears me, and there’s no surprise on his face.
I get the feeling he isn’t surprised often.
“Come here,” he says. It’s not sharp, but still feels a bit like a command.
I walk the rest of the way on autopilot and stop at the edge of the kitchen.
The Regalia bags take up half the counter. He’s already unpacking containers, lining them up neatly.
A foil pan. A couple of smaller plastic containers. Paper-wrapped bread.
My mouth waters and my stomach roils unpleasantly with nausea.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, my voice hoarse.
He pauses with a lid in his hand and looks at me.
Not the way he looks at people at the office. Not that quick, assessing sweep like he’s categorizing problems.
This is slower.
“Okay,” he says. Then, “When’s the last time you ate?”
The question feels like a trap.
I shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like I don’t know. Like I can wave it away.
He doesn’t let me.
“Erica.”
My throat tightens around my own name.
Just lie. Tell him you ate at the hospital. A couple of hours ago.
His gaze holds mine for a beat, then drops briefly to my hands at my sides, to the way my fingers are curled like I’m bracing.
He sets the lid down.
“My dad couldn’t eat before surgery,” I start, already knowing it’s bullshit and already knowing he won’t buy it. “I didn’t want to eat in front of him, so I figured I’d get something at the hospital.”
There. That’s the truth. I did intend on getting something at the hospital.
“What did you get?”
I stare at the floor between us.
I rub my thumb against the side seam of my sweatpants.
Just lie, damn it!
But I can’t. It sticks in my throat, and I end up opening and closing my mouth a few times, like a guilty little guppy.
“Coffee.” My voice comes out quiet and weak.
“Erica, did you eat today?”
He already knows the answer. He wants me to say it and stop deflecting.
I swallow.
“No.” Sir. It’s on the tip of my tongue, and I barely bite it back, knowing how dangerous that territory is.
“How much coffee? Any water?”
I lift my shoulders in another useless shrug.
His eyes narrow a fraction. Not anger. Concern. Which is worse, because I don’t know what to do with it.
He takes a breath like he’s choosing his words.
“Was anyone there with you?”
My stomach drops.
The shame comes fast, hot, immediate, as if having no one else in our lives is something we should be sorry about. Like being a family of two is not enough.
I keep my gaze down.
“No,” I say.
The word feels small. It shouldn’t. But it does.
His face changes. Not dramatically. Just… something in his eyes softens in a way I don’t like seeing directed at me.
I avert my eyes.
“Maddy left,” I add, defensive and pathetic at the same time. “She had to go back. She can’t just— She has her own life.”
It occurs to me he has no idea who Maddy is.
“You could’ve called me.”
The air shifts just a fraction.
I look back before I can stop myself.
He’s not standing like he usually does, squared shoulders, command posture, a man who runs a city after dark without getting his hands dirty.
He’s just… a man in my kitchen, watching me like he actually sees me.
And his tone is gentle.
Not performative. Not over-the-top. Not pity.
Just gentle.
It makes my chest tighten.
“I didn’t—” I start, then stop because I don’t know what excuse to use that doesn’t make me sound worse.
He doesn’t push for one.
“I meant what I said,” he adds, still quiet. “You could’ve called.”
I blink at him.
This isn’t his usual way.
Nico doesn’t coax.
He doesn’t soften himself for people. He doesn’t take his time. He doesn’t sit and wait for someone to feel ready.
He manages. He directs. He gets results.
That’s who he is.
So if he’s being like this with me—
Wow. I must be worse off than I thought.
My stomach twists again, and I press a hand lightly to my midsection without thinking.
Nico’s eyes flick to the gesture.
“Sit,” he says.
There it is. A hint of the Nico I know.
But even that comes without sharp edges.
“I’m fine,” I try.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t argue. Just looks at me like he already knows how this ends.
I feel myself cave.
The table is a small square table with a chair on each of the four sides. I step to the table and sit in my usual chair because it’s easier than standing under his eyes.
He pulls a plate from my cabinet like he’s been here a hundred times.
He sets it in front of me, then a fork.